


The Grave is Everywhere

by Chandrian



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 21:17:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13726155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chandrian/pseuds/Chandrian
Summary: Buffy has nightmares and turns to Spike for understanding. Pre-"Once More, With Feeling"





	The Grave is Everywhere

She was warm. Like a pillow that had been out in the sun, she felt soft and warm. Like a child’s stuffed animal, she felt loved.   
A sudden wind swept away her pillow, her stuffed animal. She was cold. Like a knife, she felt sharp. Like a child’s hands in winter, she was fragile and cold.  
There was no air.   
\--  
Choking, Buffy woke with a start. Heart racing, back sweating, her eyes looked into the white ceiling above her. She was too warm, her blankets damp with sweat and heat, sticking to her like dirt. There was a low light from her window. The window Angel had once thrown himself threw, she remembered with a small smile. A smile which quickly died from her lips as the brief humor that had inspired it fled like dirt before wind.  
Sunrise was close. With sunrise came life. The life of Dawn, who was back in school now that Buffy was back. The life of Willow and Tara, the ones who still went to school. Anya and Xander, the couple that planned to marry, lead a life of happiness. Life.  
Buffy’s eyes closed against the coming day, closed against the life she had to lead once more.   
\--  
An hour passed as Buffy lay in the same pose in which she’d awakened, too heavy to move or push away the blankets that kept sweat trickling on her neck. She heard Dawn moving in her room across the hall. She heard quiet giggling from her mother’s room. Tara and Willow. Still Buffy didn’t move. They wouldn’t expect her to get up until Dawn was ready, preparing to leave. They’d believe she was tired from patrolling. From killing.

Her eyes remained closed until there was a gentle tap on her door, a faint sound on the wood. Hollow.

“Buffy? You awake?” It was Dawn. Her voice, sweet and innocent, calling from the other side of the door. What a metaphor.

Clearing her throat, she replied, “Yeah, Dawn. I’m awake.”

“Okay! Just checking.” There was a pause during which Buffy stared at her ceiling. “Do you want some breakfast?”

Food. Right. “Yeah. I’ll be down in a minute.” A struggle to sound only tired.

A sigh from deep inside her and Buffy finally pushed back her oppressive blankets. The sweat covering her evaporated, leaving her cold and shivering. Warm to cold. Comfort to life.

She dressed slowly in whatever was closest to hand before stepping into their shared bathroom, glad at least that the other girls were already downstairs. With unnecessary concentration, she brushed the sweat and tangles from her long blonde hair until it was silky under her hands. She moved through the rest of a morning routine before making her way to the kitchen.

Tara was making pancakes, still in her bathrobe. Buffy noticed her tousled hair, and glancing at Willow, who was dressed, noted a similar hairstyle. Dawn was happily munching on misshapen pancakes, chattering about drama from school while the other women cooked or made lunch for the day. 

When Dawn saw Buffy from the corner of her eye, she waved Buffy to the seat next to her.

Through a mouthful of pancake she said, “Come on, Buffy, haff some pancake!” 

Buffy forced a smile and sat by Dawn, pulling a plate and one pancake to her. Dawn continued talking and it was a few moments before Buffy realized that she’d eventually run out of reports from school and had fallen silent. Tara and Willow were casting quick glances at each other, but otherwise avoided looking at Buffy and Dawn, whose big eyes were turned to Buffy, half expecting, half concerned. 

“So,” Buffy said, swallowing a lump of dry pancake that tasted like dirt in her mouth, “All your homework is done and--and everything?”

Dawn grinned slightly, apparently pleased that Buffy had said something. Anything. “Yep. All ready to go the factory where they can turn me into a mindless drone.” Her twinkling eyes indicated that she expected Buffy to laugh. So Buffy laughed.  
Appeased, Dawn devoured her last bit of pancake. “Alright, I’ll see you guys after school! Bye, Buffy.” Dawn stepped carefully to Buffy’s side and hugged her gently, leaving only a slight ache in Buffy’s center when she pulled her arms away. 

“Bye, Dawnie,” replied Buffy, tucking a strand of hair behind Dawn’s ear. 

Once they heard the front door close, Willow cleared her throat.

“Heh, so,” her voice somewhat breathy and anxious, “What are you up to today, Buff?”

Buffy picked at the last of her pancake, which was almost shaped like a mustache, and shrugged. “I don’t know. Training with Giles, probably.”

“Th-that’s good!” Willow sounded relieved. “Yeah, training. Gotta keep those Slayer muscles nice and...perky?” 

“Not perky, Willow,” Tara chimed in hurriedly. “Strong. She means strong,” she said, looking at Buffy, who only stared at the two of them as they awkwardly attempted to talk to her. 

“Right,” Buffy said, lifting one shoulder in a non-committal way. She stood and fiddled with her shirt a little before saying, “Well, I’d...better get going. Lotta training to do. Get back into fighting shape.” 

Willow’s face fell. It was hardly noticeable, but she looked just a bit crestfallen at Buffy’s oblique mention of her death. 

“R-right,” Willow said faintly. “You gotta--be strong to, you know--kill those vamps, and everything.”

“Right,” Buffy nodded. “I’ll see you guys later. Thanks for the pancakes, Tara,” she added as she left through the backdoor. She heard Tara say, “You’re welcome” before she closed the white door and jumped lightly off the porch.

Once she made it to the street, Buffy let her face fall expressionless. It was hard, trying to look happy, or content, or...just normal. No matter what she was doing or who she was with, her eyes had a tendency to just stare. Not at anything in particular. A wall. A chair. Anything that didn’t move or require her to follow something. She knew it was disconcerting to her friends, so she tried to look engaged when she was with them. But it was so hard. Harder than killing a vamp.

Buffy let her mind wander, unwilling to focus on any one train of thought. She just existed, which was painful enough. Arms wrapped over her chest, her feet trod a familiar path and it wasn’t until she saw grass beneath her boots that she realized she’d gone to the cemetery. Again.

She paused. What did she want? Why did she keep coming back here? She could be with Giles and Anya at the Magic Box. They were company, even if Anya did lecture to her about capitalism and its benefits over a socialist society. But the way Giles looked at her sometimes… It was like he knew when she wasn’t all there. When she was remembering. 

Buffy shook her head and looked around. As it was only nine in the morning, the cemetery was empty. Buffy had rarely seen anyone visit a grave here. The crypt she’d visited a few times in the past was there, near the treeline. It beckoned her.

Spike knew. He understood. Mostly. He understood what she’d gone through. Buffy knew he felt sympathy for her, but he didn’t talk about it. He just let her be whenever he was around, which hadn’t been that much since she’d come back. 

Hesitantly, Buffy moved toward the small stone building. She paused at the door, listening. She heard the faint sound of television from within and knew Spike hadn’t gone to rest yet. Before she could stop herself, she knocked softly at the door. The television inside went silent. Why had she knocked? She could’ve just let herself in, the way she had before. He was a vampire, she didn’t need to show this much resp--

The door opened. Back in the shadows, away from stray sunlight, was the pale face and platinum hair of Spike. When he saw her, practically huddled on his doorstep, he tilted his head, eyes widening slightly. 

“Oh, it’s you.” His accent, so British yet so unlike Giles’, crept into her ears with a familiarity that startled her. “Come in, then.”

He stood behind the door as he opened it to let her in. She darted a look at him as he closed the door behind her and took in his black shirt, black jeans. He was barefoot. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him without boots on. His toes were surprisingly delicate.

Buffy shook her head. Spike’s toes? What was wrong with her?

They stood there, not speaking. Buffy could feel Spike looking at her, but she couldn’t yet bring her eyes to his. She took in her own clothing, realizing she hadn’t paid attention that morning. Her boots peaked out of the hem of her dark jeans, the waist of which was concealed beneath a black sweater. She’d inadvertently dressed like Spike, something she noticed now that she was standing in front of him. 

She looked up and met his gaze. His head was again tilted to one side, lips parted, eyes on her face. Buffy quickly flicked her own eyes to the television, which was only muted.

She swallowed. “What are you watching?” Couldn’t think of anything else to say. Didn’t think to pretend this visit was work related.

A few seconds passed as Spike tilted his head over the opposite shoulder. Buffy’s eyes stayed resolutely on the screen, watching in silence as a woman confronted a man in a hospital bed. From the looks of it, the man had woken up from surgery and the woman--who was pregnant, Buffy now noticed--seemed distraught about...something.

“This?” Spike turned away from Buffy now, who relaxed slightly now that she was no longer under his attentive gaze. “Some drivel. Passions isn’t on till later, but I gotta pass the time somehow, you know?” 

He was looking at her again, and she chanced a glance into his face. His expression was soft, a smile curling around the edge of his mouth. He seemed to be suggesting that Buffy understood what it was to pass time. And she did. Anything to make time go faster, to take the present away from her, except it never went anywhere, she was always in it, always there, always--

“Buffy?” Spike’s voice, soft as a pillow, broke through her anxious thoughts. 

Buffy cleared her throat. “Yeah?” Not looking at him again. The man was now unconscious, the pregnant woman weeping over him. 

“Do you want to sit down? Show’s gonna be on for another half hour. Long time to stand there.” 

He didn’t mention the way her eyes had gone deep. That she’d been clutching herself like a lifebuoy, a woman set adrift in a sea of worry. Like a girl who’d known heaven and lived in hell.

“Yeah,” Buffy said quietly. Hoping that gratitude bled into her tone. 

Spike gestured to his own chair and then sat in the one next to it as Buffy settled into the cold cracked leather. He unmuted the television, glancing once in her direction before leaning back into the green fabric of his guest chair. 

Buffy felt something. A sort of wistful appreciation, that Spike had offered her his chair. Nothing more than that. No expressions of sympathy. He didn’t ask her what was wrong. He didn’t ask for anything of her. Just made sure she was comfortable.

They sat that way for some time. Spike made comments on the soap opera, on the one that followed, and then on. Buffy was somewhat surprised that she stayed. With Giles and Anya, she would have made some excuse to leave after an hour. Yet she sat companionably with Spike through several episodes of daytime tv. She was comfortable. Not a sensation she was used to anymore. 

Around noon, Spike got up and went to his fridge. He pulled out a bottle full of a dark red liquid. Blood, of course. He hesitated, looking from his bottle to Buffy. 

“I haven’t got anything for you, unless you want to try some A positive.”

Buffy’s look of “as if” made Spike chuckle, and checked his fridge again. 

“I’m fine, Spike. I’m not hungry,” Buffy quietly assured him. She wasn't lying. She didn’t feel hunger much. Unless she forgot to eat for a whole day. Which had happened.

Head tilted again, Spike stepped to her chair, bottle of blood dangling by his side. Buffy looked away, to the screen, to the falsity. A man was pleading with a woman to love him. Saying he needed her. Buffy felt Spike’s eyes on her still.

“You’re fine,” Spike whispered. He sat back in the guest chair, unscrewing his blood and swigging it. Moments passed. “You know, Buffy,” he drawled, his voice playing with her name like a cat with string, “it’s okay if you’re not fine. You don’t have to be fine around me.”

Sounds of swallowing. Blood through his teeth. His tongue. His throat. His toes danced in the air as he uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, bottle held loosely in his grip. There was dirt on his toes, Buffy noticed.

“Spike,” she said, still looking at his dirty toes. “What was it like?”

A pause. She could almost feel his head tilting. “What was what like, love?”

Love.

Buffy ignored this. 

“When Drusilla turned you. You were dead. Weren’t you?”

The screen stayed on but the sound died. The man and woman were kissing in silence now. 

“Yeah. I was,” he said quietly. “For about a day.”

“What was it like?” A pause. “For you?”

She heard Spike shift in his chair, the susurrus of jeans brushing over cloth. A soft bump as he set the bottle down.

“It wasn’t long,” he said finally. Buffy glanced sidelong at him. He was also staring at the television, watching as the couple continued kissing passionately. “I don’t remember much of it. It was so long ago. But…I was cold. I didn’t go where you did. I was already turning, already evil. I didn’t get the puffy clouds and warm blankets. It was cold, dark, and empty.” Silence. The couple had stopped now. The man was crying. “Not a very pleasant memory. Not like yours.”

“No,” Buffy replied softly, eyes beyond the love scene playing out in front of her. “Not like mine.”

More silence. They sat for long minutes. Spike didn’t turn the sound back on, for which Buffy was grateful. She didn’t want to hear the words that accompanied this increasingly dramatic and sad scene. 

“When I sleep,” she murmured. Sure that Spike would hear her. He always listened. “I’m warm. I’m cared for. I’m back in that...place. And it’s so wonderful.” Her voice was breaking. Still she talked. “But then it changes. I get cold. It gets dark.” At last, she looked up at Spike. His face sparkled through the tears in her eyes. “It gets empty.” His expression didn’t change. He was just looking at her, pain and care--for her--etched on his face beneath that white-blonde hair. “And then I wake up. But the emptiness doesn’t go away. I wake up. I see Dawn, I see my friends. And I just hurt. They want me to be happy, but I can’t be happy here anymore. I was…” she stood, pacing around the chairs. “I was at peace there. Being back is so hard. Every day, I just wish I didn’t have to be here. Be around these people who love me and want the best for me when I can’t feel. When I don’t want anything.”

Her rant ended. Tears were tracing a path down her cheeks, brushing the edges of her mouth. She collapsed into Spike’s chair, the leather creaking beneath her legs. She pushed her face into her hands, trying to press those words back into her. She’d said it. She’d admitted that she didn’t want to be here. It was fine in her head. But out loud made it more real. 

Buffy felt a tentative touch on her knee. Pulling her hands away, she saw that Spike was right there. His platinum blonde head a foot from her own. One hand hovered over her knee while the other had reached toward her face. He didn’t touch her. He just held himself there. Showing his willingness to support her. The love she knew he felt for her was there in his face. But unlike the love of Dawn, or Giles, or Willow, Spike’s affection didn’t make her feel pressured. She knew what he was, what he said he felt. He’d been trying so hard to help her, even when she was dead. Yet he never asked for anything. Once, he’d asked her to love him. Her “no” had been enough, and he hadn’t brought it up much since then. The love that stared from Spike’s face was a love that merely existed. It didn’t need anything from her. It didn’t even need her existence. He’d loved her while she was gone and that hadn’t changed when she came back.

Buffy didn’t accept the hand he offered to her cheek, her hair. But she did take the hand by her knee in her own. She held his cold, dead hand, except...it wasn’t cold. At least, not as cold as she’d expected. Angel hadn’t been cold as death either, she remembered. Vampires bled after all. It made sense there would be some warmth in them. Like a human.

Spike nodded, offering a small smile to Buffy as he gently squeezed the hand she’d given. He slowly sat back in the other chair, still holding her hand. Nothing more. No attempts to take a mile with this small inch. He just held her hand and turned the sound back on.

“Finally,” Spike said, a grin coming into his voice. He looked at Buffy, who couldn’t help but smile back in the face of his cheer. “Passions is on.”


End file.
